“By all means.”

“Expect two or three sporting gentlemen from the neighbourhood, too.  Regular good ones, my lord—­though they are county bucks—­very much honoured to make your lordship’s acquaintance.”

Scoutbush expresses himself equally honoured by making their acquaintance, in a tone of bland simplicity, which utterly puzzles Trebooze, who goes a step further.

“Your lordship’ll honour us by taking pot luck afterwards.  Can’t show you French cookery, you know, and your souffleys and glacys, and all that.  Honest saddle o’ mutton, and the grounds of old port.—­My father laid it down, and I take it up, eh?” And Trebooze gave a wink and a nudge of his elbow, meaning to be witty.

His lordship was exceedingly sorry; it was the most unfortunate accident:  but he had the most particular engagement that very afternoon, and must return early from the otter-hunt, and probably sail the next day for Wales.  “But,” says the little man, who knows all about Trebooze’s household, “I shall not fail to do myself the honour of calling on Mrs. Trebooze, and expressing my regret,” etc.

So to the otter-hunt is Scoutbush gone, and Campbell and Thurnall after him; for Trebooze has said to himself, “Must ask that blackguard of a doctor—­hang him!  I wish he were an otter himself; but if he’s so thick with his lordship it won’t do to quarrel.”  For, indeed, Thurnall might tell tales.  So Trebooze swallows his spite and shame,—­as do many folk who call themselves his betters, when they have to deal with a great man’s hanger-on,—­and sends down a note to Tom: 

“Mr. Trebooze requests the pleasure of Mr. Thurnall’s company with his hounds at——­”

And Tom accepts—­why not? and chats with Campbell, as they go, on many things; and among other things on this,—­

“By the by,” said he, “I got an hour’s shore-work yesterday afternoon, and refreshing enough it was.  And I got a prize, too.  The sucking barnacle which you asked for:  I was certain I should get one or two, if I could have a look at the pools this week.  Jolly little dog! he was paddling and spinning about last night, and enjoying himself, ’ere age with creeping’—­What is it?—­’hath clawed him in his clutch.’  That fellow’s destiny is not a hopeful analogy for you, sir, who believe that we shall rise after we die into some higher and freer state.”

“Why not?”

“Why, which is better off, the free swimming larva, or the perfect cirrhipod, rooted for ever motionless to the rock?”

“Which is better off, the roving young fellow who is sowing his wild oats, or the man who has settled down, and become a respectable landowner with a good house over his head?”

“And begun to propagate his species?  Well, you have me there, sir, as far as this life is concerned; but you will confess that the barnacle’s history proves that all crawling grubs don’t turn into butterflies.”

“I daresay the barnacle turns into what is best for him; at all events, what he deserves.  That rule of yours will apply to him, to whomsoever it will not.”